


A Heart without Words

by melonbutterfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Corsetry, Established Relationship, Fantasy, Kinky, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel fulfils one of Dean's fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart without Words

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a quite by Lamar Boschman: "When I worship, I would rather my heart be without words than my words be without heart."

Dean is staring, he knows it, but he can't bring himself to care – he can't even bring himself to look up into Castiel's face to see what he's thinking; he's too enthralled by the contrast of pale, pale skin and dark, dark corset.

When he had told Castiel about this fantasy of his, stuttering and mumbling, mind and words and fears blurred by alcohol, he hadn't imagined this. He had never dared jerking off to the thought of Castiel dressed like this, had only ever caught glimpses of might-bes when he had run his hands up Castiel's thighs, down his waist. He simply hadn't _known_ to imagine this, he now realises in some abstract part of his brain that isn't busy staring and drooling. But if he had, he'd probably have pictured something shiny, cheap, patent-leather and satin, red or black, like he knew from strip joints.

Castiel is wearing velvet, simple and almost understated; smoth, clean lines that make him look even slimmer than he already is, curvier. His skin is white, so white, milky; it almost looks like it's glowing, and he looks ethereal, unreal, like the manifestation of fantasies Dean hadn't even know he had.

There's garters lining down from the corsage, reaching down to lace-brimmed stockings, dark, dark purple, and, oh god, Castiel shaved his legs; they're long and smooth and hot as hell. He's barefoot, which is good, because the thought of heels digging into his back while he fucks Castiel, those legs wrapped around him...

Dean swallows noisily, and Castiel shifts, takes a tiny step towards him. There's a strip of creamy skin between the corsage and the panties – panties! black, with a tiny bow at the top – and Dean is overcome with the urge to lick it, but he's afraid if he moves Castiel will disappear like a mirage, only visible from certain angles. Which is ridiculous, but he didn't even know he wanted this; the feelings slammed into him like a freight train, leaving him breathless, barely able to do anything else but stare, much less form a coherent thought.

And Castiel takes another step towards him, and it's almost unreal; when Dean looks up, looks him in the face it's Castiel, just Castiel, his partner in all ways imaginable, looking calm and serene, not at all like a man who is wearing corsage and panties and stockings, silky and velvet and hot as hell. He looks just the same; like he does in the morning when Dean pours him coffee, when he's reading a book passage to him or when they're out somewhere and Castiel looks at something like it's beautiful, and Dean can't even see it. It makes him swallow, because how does he deserve someone like this in his life? And Castiel keeps looking at him like Dean's the one who is beautiful, who is a gift that needs to be treasured. While he's wearing Dean's fantasy, black velvet and laced stockings and cotton panties; nothing fanciful and somehow all the more sexy for it.

"Dean," Castiel says, and his voice is rough and deep like mocha, warm, somehow startling in the stillness of the room, between them.

But it breaks the spell, and suddenly Dean can move again; he walks up to Castiel and sinks to his knees before he can even think about it, presses his lips to that milky skin between velvet and cotton. Castiel's skin is soft and warm, and Dean breathes into it for a moment before he dares to touch with his hands, brushes his fingertips over the cotton and rubs his thumbs over hipbones tipped by velvet. A hand comes to rest on his head, and he kisses again, tastes; dips his tongue under the bow, rubs his cheek against one of the velvet carters. Castiel's breathing stutters, and Dean looks up, meets eyes that are brilliant blue, pupils dilated just a little.

Dean can't even smile; instead he kisses, the softest kind of kiss he's capable of, and licks again; he wants to bite, but he can't. Instead he sucks a mark next to a hipbone, red on white framed by black. Castiel's getting hard, but Dean ignores the growing bulge in the cotton panties; he's been hard practically since the moment he first laid eyes on him, but that's of secondary importance.

He runs his hands down one leg, but before he can let his mouth follow, Castiel places one hand on his shoulder and whispers, "Wait." And then Castiel moves away, out of his grasp, walks backwards to their bed and slides onto it. All of a sudden, his feet and legs look a lot sexier than they could have in high heels, and Dean scrambles up and out of his clothes (they have a rule; no clothes on the bed, and Dean is sure Castiel wouldn't make an exception, especially not now) before he kneels on the bed. Castiel is splayed over the pillows like a pin-up model, legs demurely closed and knees bent, arms open; not exactly an invitation, more a suggestion as he watches Dean, lets his eyes roam over his body. Dean wants to pause, wait a moment and just look at him, but he can't; he can't.

He reaches out for one of Castiel's legs, wraps his hand around the ankle; Castiel lifts it, and Dean cradles his foot and kisses the arch, rubs his cheek against it. Until today, he never paid that much attention to feet; he liked when Castiel put them in his lap and he knew how they looked, but that was all. But now, wrapped in purple see-through nylon, they're the most beautiful feet he has ever seen, and he runs his lips along them, mouths at the ankle, the sensitive underside. He kisses them until Castiel nudges him unsubtly, flicks his tongue over the ankle bone and then moves up, runs his lip over Castiel's shin. His stubble catches at the nylon, but he ignores it.

Castiel shifts slightly when Dean reaches his knee; he's sensitive there, almost nervous, and Dean is always very careful. He loves touching Castiel's knees because it makes Castiel's breath catch and stutter, and because it's a privilege; nobody else is allowed to touch them, and nobody else even wants to. They're a treasure in plain sight, a secret between them that is in a language nobody else understands.

The delicate nylon wrapped around them makes touching them feel decadent, indulgent; Dean practically savours it, kissing every inch and flicking his tongue against the sensitive sides. Castiel is making tiny, breathy noises that make Dean want to sink his teeth into his inner thigh, right above the lace, but teeth are not for this. Not when Castiel is dressed like that, a gift in velvet and lace.

When Dean reaches the broad strip of lace that tips the stockings, Castiel puts his hand on his head again; not directing or holding, just resting, a reminder that he's there. He really likes it when Dean touches his inner thighs, and so Dean spends a lot of time there, flicking his tongue under lace and garter, sucking tiny red marks into creamy skin.

"Dean," Castiel finally says, voice deeper and rougher now, like espresso, and when Dean looks up, he spreads his legs wide.

Dean licks his lips and glances at the other leg, but he honestly isn't sure if he has enough patience. It seems Castiel is with him on that one, because when Dean looks back up at him, his brow furrows slightly, and Dean tells himself, later. Later.

He kneels up between Castiel's legs, reaching for the cotton panties when he comes to a logistical problem.

"Undo me," Castiel says, and Dean blinks and looks up, and it takes him a moment before he realises that Castiel doesn't mean it in a metaphorical sense – he's reaching out with the hand not in Dean's hair, for the garters.

Which... Dean licks his lips. He had never even imagined taking lingerie off anyone, but when he pictures slowly, slowly sliding the stockings down Castiel's legs... yes.

But later. He really, really wants to fuck Cas when he's wearing stockings and corsage, and so he undoes the garters, one after the other, and then, finally, pulls the panties off. They have a wet spot where the tip of Castiel's cock leaked precome, and instead of throwing them away like he usually does with clothes that keep Castiel's skin from him, he carefully puts them on the nightstand. He also grabs the lube resting there, and when he turns around again, Castiel has a pillow under his hips and three fingers inside himself. _Been there, done that,_ his eyebrow seems to say when he pulls them out again, and Dean has to swallow hard. He must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve this now, he thinks disjointedly, and Castiel smiles as he hurries to lube himself up, licks his lips.

Castiel immediately wraps his legs around his waist when Dean takes hold of his hips, and Dean has to pause a moment to run his hands over them as far as he can reach, silky nylon covering soft skin. Then he grabs his cock, guides himself to Castiel's hole and pushes inside in one quick stroke. Castiel likes it when he's taken quickly that first thrust, has once talked Dean into an orgasm via telephone describing the whole sensation to him, being conquered, taken.

Castiel's eyes are wide and dark, and his mouth forms a small 'oh' when Dean starts to thrust, as if they hadn't done this a thousand times before.

He wants to make it last, but he can't; not with silky long legs wrapped around his waist, velvet corset against his skin, and taking his time is put on the list for later as he does his best to make it spectacular, to hit Castiel's prostrate with each stroke. Cas is mewling and grunting, sometimes rolls his hips up against Dean's to make for an extra-hard thrust, and suddenly he rears up and crashes their mouths together. They're both way too out of it to do much more than mash tongues, but it tilts Castiel's hips so Dean doesn't hit his prostrate anymore, and that won't do. When he tries to push him down again, though, Castiel shakes his head and gasps, "Can't, I'll get dirty," and the mental image of white semen splattered over the black velvet corsage does it; with a loud groan, Dean comes, rhythm stuttering and coming to a halt completely as he rides out an orgasm so strong it nearly makes him black out. He actually does zone out for a bit; he must have, because when he comes to, he's lying heavily on Castiel and they're both trembling. Castiel is making tiny throaty noises as he moves his hips, ever-so-slightly rubbing against Dean's stomach, and that is so hot he'd get hard again if he could. He probably will later, remembering this moment. Still, it takes him three tries until his arms are strong enough to hold him up, and even then it takes way too much effort to push himself down Castiel's body. But Castiel's breath is shaky, and he gives a breathless whine when Dean reaches his cock; he barely has it in his mouth when Castiel already comes with a tortured moan, all muscles tensing.

They lie, Dean's head resting on Castiel's corsage-covered stomach, Castiel's hand in his hair again, and just breathe. The velvet is soft under Dean's cheek, and beneath it is Castiel's warmth, and Dean can scarcely believe that he's here, that Castiel is here and wearing _this,_ for him.

He sighs and nuzzles – he doesn't know if it's the corsage or Castiel's stomach – and Castiel's hand in his hair tightens, and Cas sighs as well and says, "I like this."

Dean tilts his head to look up at him. "Really?"

Castiel raises one eyebrow and then smiles, a positively devious tilt of his lips, and says, "You practically worship me right now."

"Hm, yes," Dean sighs and pulls himself up, brushes their lips together. "I do."


End file.
